


3:42 am

by BlackBlood1872



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Literal Sleeping Together, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: e075 The Ben Arnold Show, Self-Esteem Issues, soft, the world isn't real at 3am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackBlood1872/pseuds/BlackBlood1872
Summary: It’s odd, he decides. Before, he would be at work now, an hour into another show, another night spent telling jokes, keeping things light, trying his best not to scream every time the hotline rings. Hoping, praying, that when they answer it’s a voice they know, a friend up at this ungodly hour for a reason that isn’t any spookier than a nightmare. Hoping, fervently, that the sound of wind and paper and crying, distant, distressed, isn’t what leaks out of that phone.Sammy might like this better, he thinks. It’s nice to be away from all of that.
Relationships: Ben Arnold/Sammy Stevens
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	3:42 am

**Author's Note:**

> Ama said "time for kissy samben" and I came to 3 hours later holding this. Thank you samben discord for enabling me in the most passive way possible XD

Sammy wakes up. He lays in the darkness, broken only by the faint city lights, smudged by the fuzz along the sides of his curtains. Their glow doesn’t illuminate anything in his room, furniture and clothes reduced to mysterious dark shapes, shades of black against black. His eyes drift over everything, familiar made strange, made familiar again as he remembers what is where. That’s his desk, his chair, the cardigan thrown over the back. That lump in the corner is the beanbag chair Ben left here when Sammy moved in, piled high with pieces of clothing he’s worn once and isn’t sure needs to be washed yet. By now, probably. Ben makes a face every time he pokes his head in here, as if his own room is any better. He never says anything. Sammy isn’t sure he’s grateful.

His gaze lands on his clock, eventually, when he stops caring what it says. _3:09_ , the dim red light tells him. No dot in the corner means it’s the morning, if the gloom wasn’t enough to clue him in.

It’s odd, he decides. Before, he would be at work now, an hour into another show, another night spent telling jokes, keeping things light, trying his best not to scream every time the hotline rings. Hoping, praying, that when they answer it’s a voice they know, a friend up at this ungodly hour for a reason that isn’t any spookier than a nightmare. Hoping, fervently, that the sound of wind and paper and crying, distant, distressed, isn’t what leaks out of that phone.

Sammy might like this better, he thinks. It’s nice to be away from all of that.

 _3:13_. Sammy isn’t going to be able to fall asleep again, not this quick. His thoughts are clear enough, given the time, and his temple is starting to throb. Faintly, quietly, but it’s enough of a headache that he knows it will bloom into something worse if he does nothing to combat it now. 

He pushes the blanket down to the foot of the bed, pushes himself up to sit. His limbs feel heavy, not quite numb but not quite real. The cotton foggy taste on his tongue has migrated into his blood, and everything is slow because of it.

He ends up in the kitchen. He doesn’t quite remember how. He thinks he shuffled here, as uncoordinated as a zombie—the likes of which he sees on TV, not anything local—but the memory is vapor thin, fading away when he turns his thoughts elsewhere. He is anxiously aware of how every noise he makes seems much too loud for this time of night. He hopes he doesn’t wake Ben.

Ben has an electric kettle, tucked away on a shelf that seems, to Sammy, a bit too high and a bit too deep for Ben to comfortably reach. He doesn’t think it gets much use. He pulls it down now, filling it halfway, plugging it in and flicking the tab above the handle to start. There’s no tea, Sammy knows, because he’s been meaning to mention it to Ben. Meaning to stare at his friend sadly for long enough to convince him to head to the store to stock up. Chamomile would be really nice right now.

Sammy makes due with the jar of honey on the counter, just starting to harden along the sides, and the small bottle of lemon juice in the fridge. It looks like an actual lemon, bright yellow with little dents and a plastic leaf tied to the neck.

Sammy smiles down at it, entirely absent, long enough for the water to start to whistle. He set it next to the honey and fetches a mug. The whistling dies down by time he finishes adding lemon and honey to the empty cup, and clicks off the moment his fingers curl around the handle. He pours, stirring his pseudo-tea and breathing in the steam.

He settles on the couch. There’s a knitted blanket folded along the back of it, and he pulls it down to wrap around his shoulders, more comfort than warmth. Keeping all of his fraying pieces contained.

The apartment looks different in the dark. Everything is greyscale, color found only in the dim patches of light from outside, from electronics. The fridge hums, white noise, and it’s so much louder than it is during the day. The glow of the streetlights press against the heavy curtains, a halo around the edges, giving hints of blue back to the fabric. The night stole the color, Sammy thinks, nonsensically, and the day will return it, fully, but until then the artificial lights of the city will gift all they can, paltry as it is.

Sammy drinks his tea. It washes away the fuzz from his mouth, warms him from the core outward. His fingers tingle where they touch the heated ceramic. His headache fades. The cup is empty the next time he blinks, and he blinks again. He sets it on the coffee table.

 _3:41_ , the microwave tells him, the dots blinking with the seconds. The number changes between one long blink and the next. _3:42_.

“Sammy?” Ben asks, voice a near incomprehensible mumble. Sammy looks up, watching Ben rub his eyes. He leans against the wall in the mouth of the hallway, pajamas a rumpled mess. His pants are too long and cover his feet entirely. The tips of his toes peek out when he shuffles forward.

His eyes are barely open but he avoids the furniture expertly, dropping down next to Sammy with a yawn. He flops onto Sammy, head on his shoulder, curling up. His feet hide under the pillow in the corner of the couch.

“What are you doing up?” Ben asks around another yawn. He leans into Sammy a little heavier. Sammy lets out a long breath. He wishes he had something to drink, to prolong his answer, but his mug sits cool and empty on the table.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

Ben makes a little noise, half between inquisitive and sympathetic. Sammy feels it against his shoulder. “Nightmares?” Ben mumbles.

Sammy shakes his head, which he doesn’t know if Ben can see, and doesn’t elaborate. Ben hums again. “Do you feel any better now?” he asks next.

Sammy looks down at him, half-asleep and getting closer every second, slumped against his side. His hair is a wild, tangled mess, though his curls gleam with the shine of whatever product he uses before going to bed. Sammy wants to run his fingers through it, pick out the knots, play with it until Ben is even more of a relaxed puddle than he is now. He wants to kiss him.

It’s not the first time Sammy’s felt this urge. Not by a long shot. But it’s the first time he lets it linger, lets the desire settle into his skin like the warmth of a spring day. It’s the first time he thinks: _maybe I can_.

Sammy tilts his head to rest it against Ben’s. He waits, two seconds, three, and then turns just enough to press his lips against his hair. He isn’t sure Ben can feel it.

Ben gives no reaction for the longest time, and Sammy wonders if he’s fallen asleep. If his hair is too thick, after all. He hasn’t gone stiff, and Sammy can still feel his breath, even and steady and warm, against his collarbone. He isn’t sure what it means. He’s too tired to worry. Sammy closes his eyes.

A few seconds later—Ben snuggles closer, and one arm sneaks behind Sammy, hot against the small of his back. The other wraps around his stomach, tangling his fingers together where they meet on Sammy’s left. Sammy sighs and curls his arm around Ben’s shoulders.

The town provides a sleepy background track as time passes, unheeded. Sammy feels warmer than he has in months, under this blanket and secure in Ben’s embrace. He can breathe easy, here, in this quiet space he’s found for himself.

Ben takes a deeper breath and shifts, head moving under Sammy’s. Sammy straightens, opening his eyes reluctantly. He thinks he could have fallen asleep like that, given time. He’ll probably be grateful he didn’t, in the morning. Later in the day.

Ben tilts his head back, still on Sammy’s shoulder, just enough to look at him. Sammy looks back. He’s so close.

“You know I love you, right?” Ben starts, and Sammy can’t help but smile. He doesn’t know how it looks, but it feels a bit sad.

“I know,” he says. _As a friend, as a brother_ , his mind supplies, like it always does when Ben says those words. In Ben’s voice, sometimes, like he’s holding up evidence to be examined.

Ben’s brow furrows, creases forming on his forehead. Sammy, still sleepy, still content, reaches up to brush his thumb against them, smooth them away. Ben leans into the contact with a sigh. He moves the arm he had pressed against Sammy’s front and catches Sammy’s wrist, loose enough he can break free if he wants to. He doesn’t.

He watches, heart somewhere in his throat, as Ben presses a kiss against his palm. He stays there, cheek cradled in Sammy’s hand, for a long moment. He sighs, eyes closed. “I love you,” he repeats, and it doesn’t sound different from any of the times he’s said it before. The only difference is Sammy’s realization that he’s always meant it like this.

Sammy swallows, and his heart settles back to where it belongs. “I love you, too, Ben,” he whispers, and it sounds like he’s always meant it to.

Ben smiles against his hand, soft and perfect. He opens his eyes and there isn’t enough light, not at barely four in the morning with all the lights out, but Sammy swears he can see them clearer than ever before. Maybe because he’s finally letting himself look. He swipes his thumb over Ben’s cheek, and it stops at the corner of his mouth. A silent question. A request.

Ben leans in and his lips are as soft as his hair; softer, warm with life. He sighs, or Sammy does, or they both do, and they breathe the same air for one moment before Sammy kisses him again, firmer, just to see if he can. To make sure this isn’t all a dream. Ben kisses back and it isn’t, it never could be. No dream can compare to this.

Ben’s hand trails down Sammy’s arm to settle on his shoulder. The arm around his back squeezes, and his palm is hot against his hip. Sammy cards his fingers into Ben’s hair, careful of the tangles, gentle as he cradles of back of his head. His other hand rubs circles on his back, mindless motions.

Sammy has no idea how long they stay locked in this embrace. He doesn’t really care. But they need to breathe, and even lazy kisses deplete air faster than it can replenish. Sammy pulls back a final time, hooking his chin over Ben’s head and wrapping his arms around him, hugging him loosely. Ben settles against his chest with a contented little sigh, arms around his waist.

 _4:23_ , the microwave blinks. Sammy closes his eyes.

“Good morning,” he murmurs. Ben lets out a quiet laugh. He presses his lips to Sammy’s collarbone, barely felt through his shirt.

“Good morning,” he repeats warmly, if a bit bemused. “We should go back to bed.”

Sammy sighs. “Probably.”

Neither of them move. Sammy doesn’t want to leave this moment, not when the light of day could so easily break everything he’s spun for himself, here, in the insubstantial hours before dawn. It feels so fragile, new and thin, blown glass. One wrong move will shatter it all. His bed is so much colder without someone else in it.

“Join me?” Ben whispers, lips against his shirt, words muffled further. Plausible deniability, protection against rejection.

Sammy could never push him away.

“Can I?” Sammy asks before he can stop himself. Making sure, always doubtful; _do you really want me there?_

“Of course,” Ben says. _Of course, of course. Always._

Ben pulls away first, stands and holds out a hand for Sammy to take. He doesn’t need it, not to rise from the couch, but he takes it nonetheless. Ben’s palm is warm against his. They leave the throw and mug where they are, to be dealt with in the daylight.

The walk back to Ben’s room is just as dark as the walk from it, made smoother by Ben’s sure steps. He leads Sammy in, still hand in hand, and only lets go to fix the blankets. He lays down, nearer the wall and facing the door, and pats the space beside him. Sammy joins him, and the moment he settles Ben rolls into his space, arm over his chest. He rests his head just under Sammy’s chin.

“Good night,” he murmurs, and then he’s out.

Sammy runs his hand over Ben’s hair, tucking a stand behind his ear. It falls back out moments later. He presses one final kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well,” he wishes. He falls asleep to the soothing sound of Ben’s breathing.

He dreams of Ben’s lips against his, and knows, now, that the real thing is infinitely better. 


End file.
